


Does it Hurt Better than Before?

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Dean, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Scared Sam, Teen Dean, Teen Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp for Dear God, It's Me, Dean. Read the previous installations for best understanding.<br/>Find blood and marrow and stretch them apart, cradle Dean’s scent in bloodstained hands.<br/>In which Sammy is fifteen, and everything hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does it Hurt Better than Before?

Sam’s shins hurt.

Hurt is probably putting it too mildly, there’s misery in his bones. Every time he stretches he can feel his body groaning out in pain.

Dean never grew this quickly.

Sam wants to apologize for each instance when he snaps at Dean and his brother’s face twinges, just a miniscule movement, but Sam knows it bothers him, knows he’s doing the best he can.

Doesn’t say anything to John about it, he can tell himself to toughen up, thank you very much. He’s fifteen and he’s wondering if there’s a spell someone can cast to stop him, right here. 6’1 is tall enough, by the Grace of God, he’s done.

Finished. He’s the same height as Dean now, and he wanted to be taller, but honestly, it isn’t worth it. It’s not worth waking up in the middle of the night feeling sewn into your own skin, allowing your incisors to elongate just so they can carve up the flesh of your palm

deviation from the norm of pain

Dean sitting up, wherever he’s lying that night, “Sammy, Sam, whatsa matter?” Voice a little slurred with sleep, dark blonde hair in disarray, but only on one side. It’s nights like those that if Sam breathes stringently enough, he thinks he catches a whiff of oranges. And then bitter chemicals assault his nose and he’s snarling, sharp and quick in the aphotic room.

He can feel Dean’s fear, olid, low banked thing. And Sam wants to offer excuse, but his body isn’t his own, anymore, and Dean never will be. “Sam, man, you want me to rub ‘em?” The question is posed softly, Dean’s more awake now, but overly cautious, like one would approach a bomb set for imminent detonation.

Dean stands up, neckline of his white t-shirt stretched out way past normal, Dean tugs on it when he’s nervous, irreversibly ruining the cotton. Boxers are all black, and Sam can see the pale upper flesh of his thigh, squints a little in order to ascertain whether or not there are freckles there. This is important to him. Wants to see if the flesh is peppered with little motes of light.

Dean’s hovering above him, hands poised hesitantly over Sam’s twitching limbs, every jerk a flash of bright luminescence against tightly shut eyelids. Sam senses the growl tearing its way up his chest, and knows Dean can hear it too, sees it in the slumped form of his older brother’s shoulders, the way his back stiffens in allowance.

“Gonna have to quit posturing, little boy.” Says it snidely, words serrated, and then the snarl is loose, whipping around the muteness with a crack, settling down laboriously between the two.

Sam’s chagrined.

Dean sinks to his knees, joints protesting with loud snaps, too old for such a young body, ninety to his nineteen. Hands feel like heaven, rough with calluses, anointed with engine grease and chipped fingernails.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when the edge of his thumb slices against Sam’s knee cap. Sam’s not sorry. Never been less sorry, he thinks, as Dean kneads the flesh, unwavering, his brow furrowed as he listens for Sam’s every exhalation,

does this hurt? Does it hurt better than before?

Sam’s chest is rumbling, Alpha inside of him not particularly fond of synthetic scent, growls again, bears against the back of Sam’s brain, goads him to claw underneath Dean’s skin.

Find blood and marrow and stretch them apart, cradle Dean’s scent in bloodstained hands. Sam shudders, half sob-sigh, he doesn’t know how to be this thing, because all this monster inside of him has ever wanted was Dean.

Dean’s fingers are cupped around his face then, and Sam snaps his head away violently, curling damaged legs up to his body, heart palpitating past the knee jerk response. Sam can see Dean’s face in the moonlight that’s peeking through the slats that protect the otherwise exposed windowframe.

Dean’s malachite eyes are twisted, wet--and Sam reaches forward cautiously, just wants to see what’s shining on Dean’s cheeks. His brother lurches backwards, face cast in shadows again, and neither of them speak, there’s only the low Alpha rumble from deep in Sam’s ribs, humming around like a bee, all noise and bark.

“Ah, Sammy.”

Sam slides his hand to his throat, squeezing there, cutting off the pressure. Dean’s voice is inflectionless, water-thin.

A funeral dirge built into words.

Sam allows his palm to slide from his neck, vibrant red marks fading as rapidly as they appeared, thrum of pain in his limbs lessening, perhaps superseded by the one in his chest. Dean’s standing, fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, and Sam can see the light blonde hair on his legs, brighter on his calves, where they see more sun.

“Go back to sleep, Sam.”

Sam sits up then, body entangled in the couch cushions. Doesn’t like to wonder about those nights. It’s late and Dad’s up at Bobby’s, been there for two days, meeting with a hunter he thinks might have a lead on

_the thing that killed mom_

Absolute Number One on the List, copyrighted Winchester handbook. Do not discuss, continue to proceed.

Sam swings his body upward, right leg throbbing a little, gentle twinge of discomfort, and Sam counts this as a good day. Sam can scent Dean, now and it’s more potent than usual, tiny fractals of lemons and raspberries and Sam hurdles himself over the back of the couch, ever thankful he’s more coordinated than before he presented. Presses himself into the hallway, it’s about five feet long, can barely call it that.

Sam can only smell Dean this well when he’s aroused. It’s not nearly as strong as it should be, slightly muffled under the scent of his father’s wrongs, but it’s there, and it’s probably more than enough for any knot-head, cause Dean’s pretty

He’ll kill you for saying it once

but Sam’s right. Dean’s pretty, made up pale skin and freckles, lashes too long and deceptively helpless lower lip. Always been that way, since Sam can remember scrambling into Dean’s ever-ready lap, ten years old and thinking that he doesn’t want to damage him, scar him up with his big, lumbering Alpha clumsiness.

Knew he was Alpha, even then, cause he wanted Dean protectively smothered in his scent, asphyxiated in it, and it scared Sam, because he was ten, and wasn’t fully sure what that meant. Why Dean was everything and nothing he’d ever had before.

Sam can hear the front door rasp open, hear Dean’s low laugh, silver tongued and honey, and he smells foreign Alpha. Sam’s mouth is three-fourths open in a wickedly low snarl before he can help himself, and he stamps down on the urge with ferocity. His heart’s pressing at his ribcage, gallant attempt to amputate itself from his body.

“Smells like Alpha in here, babe.” Sam twitches, his incisors have shredded the meat on his fingertips, and he blinks down at all the blood, watches his fingers knit themselves back together before his eyes, quick shake of the head and they’re complete.

Sam can feel Dean’s smile, rather than see it, and his brother sighs indulgently. “M’little brother and my Dad. Can’t smell ‘em on me, can you?” Sam’s never heard these dulcet tones, never heard his brother seductively propositioning someone, never seen him _look_ at an Alpha. The man groans, abruptly, and Sam presses an accusatory palm at his formerly disinterested cock.

It’s a vicious erection, raised in fury and lasciviousness, and Sam’s ignoring it as willfully as he can. He can hear snarls emanating (Alpha, Alpha) and Sam’s choking on suppressed noises and self-restraint. Dean’s whimpering.

Dean.

Dean who has had his entire body thrown into the wall by an amazon, and hopped back onto his feet like a light, eyes roving, centered on Sam. Bleeding in his veins, locked up tight. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, as the noises increase, and he can smell the possessiveness from the Alpha. This one wants to breed Dean, keep his brother barefoot and pregnant, knot-sore.

“Gonna look at it all day or you gonna do something about it?” Dean’s voice carries the wrong modulation, breathy and low, helpless, or rendered close to it. “M’not small, Dean,” Sam sinks down to the floor, involuntarily, because that voice sounds too familiar, sounds too much like concern.

Sam knows the instant that Dean’s breached, because he’s coming, and he’s pressing his fist over his dick, traitorous release, back suspended in the air, and he’s crying. His sweatpants are soaked through, briefs clinging to him like sunburn.

Sam braces his body on the wood underneath him, levers up into a standing position.

His knees ache.

He walks, stiff-legged to his room, longs for the scent of his ill-gained release to dissipate, knows they can’t smell anything over themselves. Sam flops back into the middle of his bed, and his Alpha is dead silent, for once, ceaseless clamor for attention and dominance halted.

Sam’s acutely aware that he’s going to have to live with this, for the rest of his life.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. If you could tell me how you're feeling about the timestamp in Sam's POV for the first time, I'd really appreciate it.


End file.
